Not That Much to Waste
by Alyryianis
Summary: Zaphod is drunk...and Slabartifast keeps disappearing and causing Arthur to kill himself.
1. Zaphod Conks

"Really, Mr. Beeblebrox, there's absolutely nothing to it! Order your lifetime supply of Slepzzzinian Rot Treatment today!" The nauseatingly cheery advertisement which had just appeared on the computer screen vanished.  
"Damned computer." Zaphod cursed himself for not buying one with ad protection and told himself next time an ad came up, he'd put one of his two heads through the screen. He took another sip of Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster. Zaphod smiled to himself and passed out.  
He was awakened by a very cold hand tapping his shoulder.  
"By the mother of the Great Golgafrinchian Enterprises!" he muttered groggily. He opened one eye. "Ah, Slabartifast. Nice to see you. Look, I'm rather sloshed at the moment. I'll help you saave tthhe uunniverssse nnnnexxtttt wwweeeeeeeek." His words slurred as he dropped back on to the keypad of the computer.  
"Nice work, Slabartifast. The most I have been able to get out of him has been 'By the mother' and 'Hit me again!' before he's dropped back out," said Ford.  
"Kind of sad, really," Trillian mused, "a mind going to waste like that."  
"Save your pity for someone who deserves it. There's not a whole lot to be wasted. Anyhow, Slabartifast, what was it you wanted?"  
"Nothing really, just dropping in to see if Arthur had managed to make any tea. Apparently, he hasn't." Slabartifast glanced worriedly at Arthur who was curled up in a fetal position in the corner, staring shiftily at a couch next to him. His eyes had a dull, unfocused look and he was muttering, "With cream and sugar" over and over to himself. Arthur caught sight of Slabartifast and went running down the hallway and out of the hatch into deep space. Trillian and Ford raised their eyebrows synonymously. "My work here is done," Slabartifast said, and evaporated.  
"Hey, wasn't that from..." began Ford.  
"No." 


	2. The Land of the Custard Vats

Meanwhile, Arthur was flying through space, and finding it difficult to breathe. This was not a new sensation for him. He had been without tea for so long that his respiration had not been normal (in the vaguest sense of the word) in seven and a half months.  
"Oh dear," Arthur said to himself, "I think I might die." And he, not unlike like Zaphod, passed out.  
When he awoke, he was lying in a very large vat of yellowish squashy stuff. Upon sampling it, he found it to be quite tasty. His eyes swam back into focus and he saw himself staring into the almost comforting face of Marvin the Paranoid Android. By "comforting" it is understood that it is a "comforting-but-not-quite-comfortable-oh-God-not-him-again" sensation.  
"Oh great," intoned Marvin, "I was almost starting to enjoy myself. I guess that's just too much to ask."  
"I should suppose so. Would you be so kind to help me out of this...this...stuff?"  
"It's custard." Marvin said, bending over and extricating Arthur from the really very large vat of custard.  
"What's that great ugly pink blob on your shoulder?" asked Arthur, with about as little tact as he could manage.  
"I landed in strawberry custard," Marvin said, "and I don't even like strawberry custard. I can't seem to get it off. Neither of my arms will reach that way since those wonderfully dismal years in the mattress swamp. But I suppose I am just destined to suffer. And just to top it all off, now you're here."  
"Wow, Marvin. Thanks for that warm welcome. Just making me feel right at home," replied Arthur, who was feeling a bit better, as that dip in the custard had reminded him somewhat of Earth...and tea.  
"So..." he began, "what exactly do you do here at this lovely place?" Arthur looked around him and saw a seemingly infinite amount of vats of custard in every imaginable flavor.  
"You live custard," said Marvin. "You eat custard, you swim in custard, you might even be able to breathe custard if you go about it right."  
"Sounds good to me," Arthur replied cheerily. Inexplicably, he was feeling the best he had in years. 


	3. At It Again

Zaphod, as was his custom, was still drunk. He was chatting animatedly to the wall, which he happened to think was Eccentrica Gallumbits.  
"Really, Eccentrica," he was saying, "we should go sightseeing together sometime. There are so many bars...bars? WHERE DID MY PAN-GALACTIC GO?!?!?!" he yelled, forgetting entirely about the wall/Eccentrica. In answer to his question, he was suddenly hit in the back of one of his heads with a large, heavy object.  
"Ow," he said stupidly.  
"Is this what you were looking for?" Trillian asked, waving a solar- system sized bottle in his face, which, coincidentally, was what had hit him in the back of the head.  
"Yeah," he said, blinking rapidly at the stars in front of his eyes. He reached for the bottle. Trillian handed it to him. He attempted to dump it down his throat until a startling realization hit him.  
"It's empty," he said dejectedly, "there's a bottle of Old Janx Spirit under the computer over there. Would you grab that for me?"  
"No there's not," Trillian replied. "I threw it out the window."  
"Oh, okay, I see, I'll go...you did WHAT?!?!?"  
A comprehension had hit him, this time in the back of his other head. This comprehension came in the form of a bowling ball, and he was knocked out.  
"Second time today, seventh this week," Trillian muttered, "We're really going to have to do something about that Improbability Drive."  
  
At this time, Ford had escaped Trillian's attempt at sobering Zaphod, and was working with a computer in a back room.  
"If it takes forty gallons of Gargle Blaster to..." he was mumbling to himself, "and I am sixty-seven out five thousand four hundred and forty- fourths the size of a..."  
Out of all of this, he concluded that it would take him four seventeenths of a gallon of Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster to become intoxicated to the point that Zaphod was now. He ran and got a bottle.  
"If misery loves company," he said, "then I am quite positive that Zaphod does too." 


	4. Sardine Flavored Custard

Meanwhile, Arthur had managed to hop from one vat of custard to another. He was really feeling quite smug about it too. He hopped along from chocolate to fudge to toffee and then back to vanilla, humming a toneless melody slightly reminiscent of "Tiptoe through the Tulips". He skipped into a vat of orange custard, less gracefully as he would have liked, and landed on his back. He turned around and attempted to right himself. It was harder than it looked. Arthur managed to get himself onto his side, and he opened his eyes. Through a rather large blob of custard he saw Fenchurch.  
"FENCHURCH!" he said as he attempted to run and embrace her. It was a valiant attempt, but it somehow ended with him facedown in the custard. "Mmmfagooorrrrb!!!!" Arthur said through a mouthful of custard. He swallowed. "Fancy meeting you here. Have you seen Marvin?"  
"Marvin's the slightly depressed hunk of metal, right?" Fenchurch replied.  
"I hope you didn't call him that to his face."  
"Well...now that you mention it..." Fenchurch looked guiltily at Arthur.  
"No wonder he was enjoying himself. Anyhow, what brings you to these parts?"  
"Leisure. I enjoy swimming through custard every day of this miserable existence."  
"Really? Me too!" Arthur said with a great deal more enthusiasm than Fenchurch.  
"I was joking."  
"Oh."  
"I have been trying to fly like you taught me. It is a great deal more difficult here. I've had to change your words from 'throwing yourself at the ground and missing' to 'throwing yourself at the custard and missing'. It keeps tipping me off balance."  
"I'm sorry to hear that. Look, I've got this sudden craving for sardine-flavored custard. I'm going to run get some. Talk to you later." He slopped away, still slightly curious as to what the devil this place was. 


End file.
